


A Hooligans’ Game Played By Gentlemen

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, porn but with a whole lot of plot first, rugby as foreplay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:25:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John wants to get back in shape, does so, joins a rugby league and has sex with Sherlock Holmes. In that order.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>He was no spring chicken - as it were - and the extra stress of running and jumping and tripping and falling and climbing and leaping and - in one notable instance - swimming to the bank of the Thames was putting his body through the proverbial ringer.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hooligans’ Game Played By Gentlemen

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Robyn, Dennis and especially to Alicia for the Brit pick. All mistakes are my own.
> 
>  **Apologies** ; this isn't a terribly poetic piece; I sort of latched onto "There should be more fics in which John plays rugby! And also in which he and Sherlock have hot, sloppy sex afterward!"
> 
> And this is what happened. No regrets, etc.

John’s chasing Sherlock around the streets of London had begun to be a problem. Not an actual problem, nothing dire, but it was something that caused an undue amount of pain for the army doctor and seemingly none for his consulting detective flatmate. He was no spring chicken, as it were and the extra stress of running and jumping and tripping and falling and climbing and leaping and - in one notable instance - swimming to the bank of the Thames was putting his body through the proverbial ringer.

The mornings after (and more often than not, for _days_ following) their tears through the city John would awaken and his body would positively _scream_ at him, blatant, unbidden curses. Each muscle had its own distinct chorus of pain and they would all sing out together in ragged harmony when he went to do something simple such as swing his legs from the bed, or have a gentle cough. His body casting judgment, retribution for his crime of extracurricular, cardiovascular exertion.

John would have to hobble down the steps to make the tea, even his wrists protesting as he would lean in to turn the kettle on. His back would berate him when he bent a fraction to get the milk.

This simply wouldn’t do; it would not do to become invalided after a bit of running about. Especially not if he’d managed to overcome being sidelined due to an _actual_ injury; a bullet had torn through bone and flesh and muscle and yet he’d prevailed, overcome. Now, a bit of dashing around put him out of commission. Frankly, it was embarrassing.

Back in university John had been nearly the model of physical fitness. Being the scrum half on his university rugby team had meant he was not only one of the fastest on the field but someone who had amazing tackling prowess. Over the course of his three year tenure he’d bulked up quite a bit, had developed calf muscles that the footballers yearned for and managed to play with a speed and grace that surprised even himself.

He’d tried out for the team on a lark and had been stunned when he’d been accepted; his amazement carried over when he was named captain in his capstone year and John was positively stunned when he found out that Blackheath had been scouting him during his last three bouts of his university career.

John had considered the possibility of playing professionally very briefly before enrolling in medical school. Rugby was a passion of his but it wasn’t a career; medicine was both. Still, he owed his prowess and ability in the battlefield during his army training to his years on the team and for that he would be forever grateful to the sport.

There hadn’t been many opportunities to indulge in any messing about when he’d been in medical college, save for the random game of touch rugby that would happen on the weekends out in the park. There certainly had been no opportunity to go knocking about with a ball during his time in Kandahar and afterward his injury had made it seem all but impossible. Thus, it had been years since John had taken up a ball.

Still, he longed for the days in the scrum, taking down men twice his size, the easy camaraderie that came with being amongst blokes who were pinpoint-focused on winning. He missed being a part of a _team_.

‘Nothing like that nowadays,’ John would think as he’d shuffle himself over to the sofa and fall into the most comfortable position that his body would allow. These nightly tears were taking a very real toll on him, invaliding him for even the most simple of tasks. It was a chore to make it to the surgery in the days after a sprint through Whitechapel; it was a nightmare getting the shopping from Tesco the afternoon following a race through the East End.

True, John Watson was getting older but that certainly did not mean that he would allow his body to fade. _No_ , he decided, _not anymore_. It was his own fault that he’d allowed it to come to this, to fall so out of shape. Biceps fading, he had no abdominal definition to speak of and running more than a few blocks would wind him, the lactic acid build up slowing him to a jog.

He signed up for bi-weekly physical therapy appointments for his shoulder. The pain had gotten better since he’d been mucking about with Sherlock, that was undeniable, but to get back to peak condition he would need an expert to work his muscles.

John began jogging through Regent’s Park every other morning. At first it was a light jog for a mile or so, followed by some walking; he gradually worked at his pace until he could make a mile in under eight minutes, increasing his distance as he went. It took him four months before he could run a 10k easily, without his shoulder acting up or having to pause for breath. He ran when he could find the time, generally in the early mornings before Sherlock would peek his head out from his bedroom and demand tea.

If his flatmate noticed any positive improvement in his physical health at the time, he said nothing. Even as the two of them began gravitating towards something that John was entirely unsure of... he didn’t mention a thing. Sherlock would comment on his new jumper or how proficient he was at making butter chicken; he would ‘accidentally’ brush against John, tidy up after himself and had even begun to make regular trips to the Tesco to grab the milk (and just the milk) but nothing about John’s improved physical state.

The man noticed, of course he did, _had to _and yet he remained mute on the subject.__

__He said nothing until one morning in late January when John finished his tea and toast and announced that he was taking Molly up on her offer to the both of them and using the gym in the basement of Bart’s. Normally it was reserved for staff, but she’d pulled a few strings (and wasn’t she always when it came to the two of them) in order to get him access._ _

__“What?”_ _

__“Gym,” John repeated, filling a stainless-steel water bottle to the brim at the tap. “Short for gymnasium. A place where people often go to exercise?” It was said in jest but caused a distasteful scowl to bloom across Sherlock’s mouth. And of course it would; gymnasium was not a part of Sherlock Holmes’s extended habitat, it was not a locale he was familiar with or one he particularly regarded as useful and thus it made perfect sense that the mention of going to it would result in a scowl._ _

__Sherlock poked at the toast on his plate before turning to glare at John. “I’ve said nothing about your new _running_ -” Sherlock said the word as though it was bitter and he had to rid his mouth of it immediately- “Habit as it hasn’t yet interfered with-”_ _

__“With what?” John asked annoyed but amused as he took a swig of the cool water, leaning maddeningly casual against the countertop._ _

__“The work!” Sherlock continued, “I intend for us to see the body of the latest jumper at Bart’s today and I simply can’t permit-”_ _

__“Well,” John announced happily, positively unperturbed as he pushed himself from the counter, slicing easily into Sherlock’s raging. “As you have no right to either permit or allow me to do anything... I’ll just meet you afterward at the morgue. It’s just upstairs and I’ll only be about an hour anyway.”_ _

__Sherlock blinked, mouth guppying for words, searching for further argument which might convince John not to abandon him._ _

__John simply shrugged. “You’ll need to get ready,” Sherlock was still in his blue, striped pajamas and dressing gown, hair in a state of complete disarray. “It’ll take you about that long just... text me when you’re there and I’ll finish up.”_ _

__Sherlock blinked again, this time in something nearing confusion. “Finish up what?”_ _

__“Arms and back,” John said with a grin as he hauled his duffel over his shoulder and disappeared down the stairs._ _

__Sherlock took a bite of his toast and chewed pensively. “I’ve no idea what that means.”_ _

__So John settled into a routine; many days he had to convince himself to go to the gym as any person would; on the evenings he didn’t have anything planned he would make the walk home to Baker Street. He began wedging exercise in when he could. Taking the stairs up from the Tube, discovering the long way to the Tesco._ _

__There was now a set of barbells that John kept beneath the foot of his bed and he would go through a few sets of biceps-triceps-shoulders every evening before turning in. It wasn’t his intent to bulk up necessarily, but to shape up and when his arms and back began showing the signs of his fitness regimen he was very pleased indeed. Knowing that one was getting healthier was always welcome but seeing actual results was positively brilliant._ _

__Five months total of his routine and he often times found he would outpace Sherlock on their chases; several times he had to wait for Sherlock to get his breath back and catch him up._ _

__John had suggested once, off-hand, that perhaps Sherlock would like to join him on his jogs in the morning mentioning how it had helped them in their work. “Nothing too much, a few miles, perhaps.”_ _

__He’d been met with a clipped, “Pointless,” and the matter had been effectively dropped._ _

__But John could tell that his exercise routine and the payoff from it hadn’t escaped Sherlock’s attention, not now. It wasn’t as though Sherlock _hadn’t_ glanced sidelong at him when he’d emerged wet from the shower in just a pair of trousers, months back, it was just that now Sherlock was being rather obvious about it._ _

__“There a problem?” John asked when he’d had quite enough of the staring-bordering-on-oogling; it was - of course - within the detective’s purview to deduce things about John when he saw fit, but there was a particular sort of heat to his gaze and he wasn’t doing a particularly good at being sly about it. Sherlock’s gaze was... interested, appreciative and just the slightest bit curious._ _

__The man’s gaze lingered on John’s right arm for a few moments before realization lit his irises. “Arms and back.”_ _

__John blinked, confused, at a loss for exactly what Sherlock was getting at. Yes, he had arms and a back; yes, that was a facet of his workouts._ _

__“This is what you hoped to accomplish,” Sherlock explained to him, making a vague gesture to John’s upper body with a flippant hand, exasperated as he tore his gaze away and back to the tea he was making._ _

__“Oh,” John said, “Yes, I suppose.”_ _

__Sherlock nodded, turned when he was satisfied with the state of his tea and said, “Ah.”_ _

__“Right,” John intoned and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Well, won’t be a tick then we can be off to meet Lestrade.” He headed up the stairs to his room to finish dressing. As he pulled a plaid button up from the top drawer, John mulled over the fact that he was now beginning to _feel_ Sherlock’s eyes when the man’s gaze was upon him._ _

__It unraveled John a bit that he didn’t find it in any way unpleasant. In fact, he found it difficult to have a long, quiet moment with Sherlock without it somehow becoming charged with _more_ and it was quite... appealing. They were on the precipice of something together, and yet neither one of them would speak one word about it._ _

__John unearthed a jumper and pulled it over his head, smoothing back his hair; thoughts unbidden came to him, about what it would be like to run his fingers through _Sherlock’s_ hair, about Sherlock removing the jumper that he’d just put on. Affection, he’d been able to admit that to himself quite easily; of course he had affection for the man._ _

__It had been a slow build, a slow burn that had prodded at his soul until he let it in, let it flood him. ‘Affection for Sherlock Holmes,’ he’d accepted so easily when, one evening in Surrey, Sally Donovan had taken it upon herself to call him freak._ _

__John had readily wanted to rebuke her, tell her off. And so, affection was the cause, John assumed. Before long, however, affection wasn’t an accurate moniker for the coalescing of pressure in his chest when their fingers would brush upon passing the tea, when they would fall into easy laughter in the back of a cab._ _

__There was no moment that John could pinpoint that he’d begun feeling this way; when he considered it seriously, he realized that the incident at the pool had brought everything into sharper focus. At the time he’d assumed post traumatic stress disorder, lending to the need to prove oneself alive and vital to themselves or another person that one has shared a traumatic event with. Then again, he’d never felt this about any of his mates that had been in his unit when the IED had detonated. He hadn’t felt this way about any of the men that marched into danger in the desert with him._ _

__Not directly after, not months afterwards. Not at all._ _

__Sherlock was different in a number of ways from his army mates, of course, but this was something that needed a positively separate categorization. John’s mind was generous in applying words to the feelings that welled in his chest: want, lust, romance, _love_. He rebuked them in each turn, longing for something more fitting._ _

__An extrapolation of his current state of being - he supposed - as he was happier than he’d ever been in recent memory. He felt more alive, vibrant, capable and he owed almost everything he had - almost every new sensation that thrilled him, that sparked his interest, that got his heart _racing_ \- to Sherlock Holmes._ _

__There had been considerations too, for the manner in which Sherlock looked at _him_ , assessed him and how that made John feel. It made him feel slightly wanted; it made him feel as though there was a definition to each one of his movements and he wanted Sherlock to understand them, categorize them, break him apart. But there was nothing for it, not really, not yet. Nothing clear and definitive other than a hazy form of want, an amalgamation of affection, tenderness and need._ _

__No, no. He couldn't define it yet because there were too many emotions at play and things were simply still too raw. John still awoke late in the night to the haunting fear in Sherlock’s eyes, the stark, sharp, intense fear he’d seen there when Sherlock had stumbled upon him strapped to Semtex._ _

__And that, that meant something too, that abject fear but John couldn’t really decipher the _meaning_ of it yet; he didn't yet know how._ _

__Things, for the time being, were just fine. He would manage with Sherlock looking after him (longingly? Were they longing glances?) and he in turn would repress the swell of that _something_ every time he caught Sherlock’s eye._ _

__John ran a hand through his hair once more and exited the room, headed down the steps and found Sherlock in the doorway to the flat, anxiously ready to head out. “Cab’s waiting,” was all the taller man had to say and John took that as a hint they they were in quite the hurry._ _

__They managed to make it to New Scotland Yard in record time (which for them was indeed the feat) and Sherlock tipped the cabbie handsomely for his driving efforts. John simply rolled his eyes and shut the door after Sherlock bustled off without him, through the glass revolving doors and mounted the escalator. In a bit of a testy mood, then._ _

__They no longer bothered with visitor’s badges; that perfunctory task had gone by the wayside on their second case together, “He’ll be consulting with me for the foreseeable future so we’ll be forgetting about the tags, yes?” Sherlock had made that pretty clear to the frightened desk sergeant. The assertion that John was to be with him for “the foreseeable future” had both annoyed and thrilled John._ _

__The men wound their way through the bullpen, the tails of Sherlock’s coat flapping against the swivel chairs of many of the officers in the pool. They all watched as he went tearing through the office while John attempted to rebuke the flush that threatened to paint his cheeks; he hated this part, the part where Sherlock assured that all eyes were on him and in doing so, assured the same for John._ _

__“Ah, gentlemen,” Lestrade ground between clenched teeth as he witnessed their approach and Sherlock pushed his way past Donovan and through into the D.I.’s office without a word._ _

__John shook his head in exasperation; more flies with honey was always John’s approach and ever the one to placate, nodded his head toward the junior detective. “Sally,” he mentioned by way of greeting._ _

__“John,” she returned and with a half smile and walked calmly back to her desk._ _

__Sherlock snatched up the manilla folder on the desk and began scanning it eagerly. John stood by his side, giving Lestrade an understanding but indulgent smile while both of the men waited._ _

__After a few moments, Sherlock paused in his ministrations with Lestrade’s papers and looked up hopefully and impatiently at the D.I.; he didn’t bother asking anymore, Lestrade simply gave, now. “The scene’s a bloody mess and hopefully we can get you down there before the day’s out; some sort of creosote on the body, but the location is miles from a train yard.”_ _

__Sherlock’s eyes lit up and tossed the folder back on the desk and slipped out his phone, utterly ignoring Lestrade for a moment._ _

__“Right, so, they were all in their early thirties, shot execution style,” Sherlock lifted his eyes briefly to John’s before delving back into the text he was composing. Lestrade sighed and pursed his lips, an expression that Sherlock never saw._ _

__“What do we know about the victim?” John asked as he snatched Sherlock’s phone out of his hand so that the consulting detective would pay a bit of attention, flies with honey, flies with honey; they’d talked about this and Sherlock had been making an effort but sometimes John had to remind him._ _

__“Well, rather normal bloke really. Wife, two kids, other than the fact that he was coming up the ropes over at Rosslyn Park, nothing really remarkable about him.”_ _

__“Hmmm, may I see the file?” John asked as he slipped the phone into his back pocket. He leafed through the contents, reading about the crime scene and the utter lack of physical evidence. “Scrum half, s’what I played,” John said offhandedly, continuing his perusal of the information, not noticing Sherlock’s head snapping around to look at him or Lestrade’s blooming smile._ _

__“You’re kidding,” the D.I. said, “You’re a rugby man?”_ _

__John chuckled, suddenly a bit embarrassed; he bent his head further toward the casefile. “Was, back in the day, haven’t played in years.”_ _

__“Rugby?” Sherlock asked in confusion, looking from the doctor to Lestrade and back. He made a swipe for his phone but John managed to nudge away._ _

__Lestrade’s hands went to his hips as though he was both impressed and sizing up the situation. “Well you’re still in the shape for it.”_ _

__John didn’t really know what to say to that so he furthered his perusal of the crime scene details. “Hah, well, back in uni Blackheath had an interest.” John wasn’t stroking his own ego, he was still - to this day - quite shocked that they’d shown any interest at all; the comment landed as off-handed, no real interest in anyone’s reaction, just a fact, moving on._ _

__“You’re kidding! Well, we’re looking to do a pickup game but we can’t seem to drum up enough interest.” Lestrade said, summarily ignoring Sherlock huffing across the table. “Would you be interested? Not as intense as you’re probably used to but still...”_ _

__Again, Sherlock glanced from John to Lestrade and back; shaking off a bit of the shock at actually having had no idea that his friend had been a part of any organized sport, that he had failed to deduce that about him, Sherlock bit, “Yes, well, we do have a _case_ here gentlemen, so perhaps we should save the talk about football for a later time.”_ _

__“Rugby,” John corrected and turned to grin at Lestrade. “And he’s just upset that he didn’t know that about me.”_ _

__“I am no such thing!” Sherlock adamantly stated and stole the file from John’s hands. “...and rugby is a _sort_ of football,” the detective grumbled as an afterthought._ _

__They spent the better part of an hour working in silence, John drawing the crime scene to scale on some sheets of parchment as Lestrade had strictly forbidden the photocopying of any official documents and Sherlock poured over the photos of the entry and exit wounds. The only time he spoke was when he asked, “Caliber?” to which Lestrade had responded, “We found no casing, but best guess was a .45.”_ _

__“When can we get to the scene?” came Sherlock’s abrupt question some time later. John paused in his scribbling of the measurements of the back wall and regarded the Detective Inspector._ _

__“I’d say give them three more hours before the team finishes up, then I’ll be able to... _sneak_ you in,” and Lestrade had to roll his eyes at himself for he knew what he was getting himself into._ _

__“Text me,” Sherlock demanded as he sprang from the chair, leaving John to follow. The shorter man grabbed his coat and managed to toss it on while bidding Greg a hasty goodbye. Once more John was left to trail behind Sherlock, a pace and a half to the detective’s one stride in order to keep up._ _

__Once they reached the street, John called out to him to please slow down. “Thank you,” he huffed once Sherlock had. “So, Lunch?”_ _

__Sherlock simply blinked and scowled; John had had about enough and with a scowl of his own he turned on heel towards the street. “Right, well I’m getting a bite and you can come along and not eat and brood or you can go off and brood on your own.”_ _

__John took off on a tear and it was only a moment before Sherlock followed him, loping along at his side._ _

__“Rugby,” Sherlock said under his breath as he pulled out the file he’d managed to pilfer from Lestrade’s desk._ _

__John sighed and took a step out to cross the lane; Sherlock followed. “Yeah.” He wouldn’t give Sherlock the benefit of _inviting_ a soliloquy on why playing a sport was boring and stupid and ordinary. He wasn’t about to open the door to Sherlock’s lofty put downs in regard to one of the only reasons he made it through university sane. He wasn’t about to pretend to be embarrassed that he was _damned good_ at rugby (or used to be, anyway) simply because Sherlock didn’t understand._ _

__“And are you going to join them, John? In their pick up games? The game for hooligans, played by _gentlemen_.” It was something about the tone that Sherlock had taken, snide. As though the mere thought of engaging in such an activity should be beneath him._ _

__“What are you on ab-what is your aversion to... to exercise. To sporting? To... being athletic? I don’t... honestly Sherlock, I don’t understand and I don’t appreciate your tone. This is something I _enjoy_ and that I’m good at and I haven’t had a chance to get on the pitch in years and...” The two rounded a corner and John stopped in front of a fish and chips stall. “And I don’t have to explain myself to you!”_ _

__John turned his attention away from Sherlock and towards the man at the stall, ordering for the both of them even if Sherlock likely didn’t intend to eat. Sod it, John would _make_ him and that would be that. He fumed to himself silently for a few moments, biting his bottom lip, willing himself not to argue with Sherlock any further._ _

__But he couldn't help it._ _

__“Didn’t you ever play football when you were younger? Kick a ball around? At all? At school? For _fun_?” John handed over a few bills to the cashier and grabbed the grease-stained bag from the man with a bit more force than necessary._ _

__“Organized sports are for the lesser masses, John,” Sherlock said absent-mindedly as John selected a bench and settled down onto it. John snorted and popped a chip into his mouth, laying out their food between them as he did so._ _

__“Course you’d say that,” he said around another chip. “Course you would, forget about the obvious camaraderie and the trust you have to put in others because you’re crap at most of that, but the whole being athletic thing. I’ve seen you run, you’re fine at that, brilliant really but I can’t imagine you... knocking around a football.”_ _

__To John’s surprise, Sherlock pulled off a bit of fish and popped it in his mouth while he watched the passersby. “Football, no, not my area... knocking about though...” Sherlock wobbled his head back and forth as though considering his next admission._ _

__“I used to box,” Sherlock swallowed. “Quite a bit. Not... competitively but... when one only has to rely on oneself and simply anticipate the movements of the other person. That is... a true challenge. _Pure_.”_ _

__Though the admission stunned John - and it did, he was rapt for a moment in the image of Sherlock with his hands taped, shirtless, swerving out of the way of an uppercut - he chose to proceed as though it made no impact whatsoever; he’d rather not relinquish his anger on asking Sherlock about his time spent _boxing_. “Ah, so when the only person you have to rely on is yourself...”_ _

__“When it is one on one the action is... more true. There is less... interference, less outliers that could impede the outcome. Less distractions.”_ _

__“You prefer to work alone, then,” John managed to keep the hurt out of his voice; he cracked open a bottle of water and looked anywhere but at Sherlock._ _

__“Work, no, not anymore. Sporting, yes.” Sherlock continued to stun his flatmate as he delved into the cardboard holder of chips and rooted around for the crispiest ones. “You can’t account for others' mistakes in such situations and as you might find obvious, I do so hate to _lose_.”_ _

__John’s lips perked in an almost-smile. “Well, maybe we could try team table tennis some time.”_ _

__Sherlock chuckled around a mouthful of food._ _

__They sat in silence for some time, John setting aside the crispier chips for Sherlock to scoop up; they watched the hustle and bustle of London on their lunch break as they finished up their own, John wiping his hands on a paper napkin before tossing it into the wreckage of the paper bag._ _

__“So you’ll be playing, then?” Sherlock noted and stole the bottle of water that rested at John’s side._ _

__“What?”_ _

__Sherlock took a slow pull from John’s water before tossing it back to him. “The way you tossed that in there, you’re... you’re giving into the temptation and-”_ _

__“Alright, yes, yes, I’m going to play.” John laughed and stood, gathering the refuse. “And that’s enough about it, I don’t need to hear you harping on about what a waste of time it is, right? So, stuff it and that’s the last of it.”_ _

__Sherlock blinked and didn’t exactly nod but he didn’t fight John on it either._ _

__“Now, we’ve got an hour or two until we need to meet Greg at the scene, fancy a walk round St. James?”_ _

__Sherlock screwed up his face in vaguely-veiled distaste and said, “Fine.”_ _

__\---_ _

__John had to go out and buy new trainers and in his search had come across a bright red pair of Asics good for both grass and turf; when he laced them up he felt an unprecedented swell of happiness and contentment bloom in his chest._ _

__Greg had included him on the email chain that he’d begun earlier in the week and John had been virtually introduced to the other blokes who were intent on playing. Some had played at uni while others hadn’t really been in a proper game since they were younger and John was heartened by the varying levels of expertise._ _

__They would each trade off refereeing, switching at the half and try to keep the more violent tussling to a minimum. “Can’t get round all of it,” Lestrade had commented in the last email exchange, closing out the statement with a winky face. That too had heartened John; there was something about the physicality of the game that lit a spark in him, that gave him edge, that fulfilled a bit of his danger quotient._ _

__The day of the first bout he’d risen at his normal hour, ate his normal breakfast, hadn’t bothered to shower. As he packed up his gear, he noted that the flat was strangely quiet. It _was_ Sunday morning, John reasoned and even Sherlock was entitled to a lie in every now and again, even if the notion of Sherlock having a lie in was distinctly absurd._ _

__After filling his water bottle, John headed out for the park. The morning was gray but warm, with the promise of a bit of sunshine later on and he was in such high spirits that he walked the nearly three miles to the pitch, taking his time, savoring the excitement coursing through his veins._ _

__It almost felt like it was filling him up, right to the brim, topping his meter. An addiction he’d thought at one point but John had found himself quite comfortable simply calling himself a thrill seeker and leaving it at that. Though, he conceded, thrill seekers didn’t inherently feel as though they _needed_ danger, they simply craved it. The line for him was fuzzy; did he crave danger or did he need it?_ _

__Sherlock had since managed to handle and fulfill John’s necessity for danger and he wondered if this would cause him to bubble over; could one overdose on it? John shook his head at himself as reached the field, pausing for a moment at the edge, noting the men who had already gathered around the benches. There were about twenty or so there already, all in the process of acquainting themselves with one another._ _

__John pulled his shin guards out as he walked over, transferring them into his left hand as he advanced on the group. Lestrade wasn’t yet there, but one of them, a younger, quiet photographer from the crime scene unit lifted a hand in greeting. The others turned to greet him and he held out a hand, “John Watson, I work with Greg Lestrade?”_ _

__There were knowing glances from around the circle until someone John had never seen before mentioned, “Oi, aren’t you that bloke that works with Sherlock Holmes?”_ _

__Again, every pair of eyes fell upon him, only the photographer cracking a smile and looking away. John was used to this by now. “That... I am,” John said and gave a half-bow, eliciting a hearty round of laughter._ _

__Conversation began regarding the last time everyone had played and just as John was about to speak, Greg sidled up next to him, clapped him on the shoulder and said, “John here was almost with Blackheath.”_ _

__“Shit mate, I’m keeping away from you,” one of the men said, causing another bout of laughter._ _

__Once they’d geared up, Greg made it a point to remind everyone that though this was in fact a tackle league, “Some of us are older than others and can’t take it like we used to, so go easy for a bit, yeah?”_ _

__In accordance with the instructions of the email, John had brought both a white shirt and a black shirt and once the teams were divided up based on an even level of skill, John wound up on the white team, opposite Lestrade. The black team wound up winning the coin toss and receiving the kick and just like that, the game began._ _

__John managed a few good, clean tackles and had driven the ball halfway up the pitch without really meaning to. His team only had to surrender the ball once in the first half, having been tackled six times without managing to score. Lestrade was fairly adept in his own right, taking John down once just over the fifty and causing him to foul out._ _

__As John regained his breath he managed a quick shove to Greg’s shoulder. “Thought we were going easy,” came his good-natured rib._ _

__“Hey, that was nothing,” the D.I. returned with a brief laugh as he attempted to regain his breath._ _

__They played hard into the half with only minor injuries, twisted ankles and skinned knees. When they took a break after thirty minutes John hustled to the bench and sucked down half of his water. He took a seat on the bench in an attempt to regain some of his breath, looking casually out over the field._ _

__He wouldn’t have even noticed the man if he hadn’t taken the time to focus on the far end of the pitch; it took him a few moments to make him out. Standing against a large Elm tree was Sherlock, coat billowing out behind him, hands in pockets._ _

__John tilted his head in greeting, both confused and embarrassed. How long had he been standing there watching? Some of the other mens’ partners and friends had come along to watch the match but this was somehow different. For all of his talk about how pointless the sport was, John would never have suspected that Sherlock would ever find it within himself to watch him play, to watch _anyone_ play anything._ _

__John felt a strange tug at the pit of his stomach; he knew of Sherlock’s distaste for team sporting events and yet he’d shown up at John’s, was watching John play. It was oddly flattering and for a moment all the army doctor could think of was how much he wanted to _impress_ his flatmate. Much like the urges he would get when his parents or girlfriend would show up at one of his matches, John wanted to prove to Sherlock that not only did this matter, but that he was bloody good at it._ _

__That he was brilliant at playing rugby._ _

__John lifted his chin in Sherlock’s direction and Sherlock lowered his, each noting the other’s presence. John tore his eyes away, vowing not to spare too much thought on the ‘why’ of Sherlock’s presence, instead undoing and refastening his shin guards and rinsing off his mouth guard._ _

__Just as he bent to retie his trainers, Greg settled himself on the bench next to him. “Never did I think I’d see the day when Sherlock Holmes would watch _sports_.” John eyes darted up to Greg’s, the detective’s face a mask of disbelieving amusement._ _

__“Yeh,” John agreed, not knowing what else to comment on; he focused on the laces of his right trainer and did them up a bit tighter._ _

__Greg drank from his water bottle, “Makes sense, though, this.” He tilted his head in Sherlock’s direction._ _

__“Whaddya mean?” a forearm against his forehead, mopping off the sweat._ _

__Lestrade’s smile cropped itself into the hint of one, ”John, come on mate...”_ _

__Face blank, John shook his head as though he didn’t understand. “Right, well,” Greg added and stood, walking back out onto the grass._ _

__The second half went much as the first had, though with two scrums and John had found himself settling into his old habits quite well. Though his left shoulder had been his dominant shoulder in the past, John found himself working his right shoulder into the huddles; relearning the rules took a bit of getting used to, John forgetting to pass the football off once he’d been tackled._ _

__When the game ended, the black team was up fifteen to twelve when the clock ran out and each team lined up to exchange handshakes. John felt a little worse for the wear, could already predict where the bruises would bloom across his legs, suspected his right cheek might be a bit black and blue as well. But it was all in good fun and par for the course._ _

__“Thank god I didn’t have to play back,” John huffed a laugh as Lestrade tore his mouth guard out and rinsed it off. “Can you imagine playing fullback?”_ _

__Greg shook his head and tore his sweaty tee-shirt over his head. “God no, not my position.”_ _

__John shrugged and tore his own shirt off, locating the clean, dry black tee-shirt in his duffel._ _

__“We’re all headed to Marley's for a pint, you going to join?” Greg asked, tossing his sweaty gear into his bag before slinging it over his shoulder._ _

__John considered for a moment, packing away his own gear. Sherlock still stood on the other side of the pitch, watching. It would serve him right if John were simply to abandon him; he hadn’t exactly been the most supportive of John’s lifestyle change. Still, it meant something - a great deal, really - that Sherlock had decided to watch the game._ _

__And for as much as John found it odd that he hadn’t bothered mentioning that he’d be in attendance, he also appreciated the consulting detective’s secrecy. If he’d known from the onset that his flatmate would have been in attendance he would have been a ball of nerves. “Pass this time,” John said before he was sure he’d actually decided and the look he received from Greg was so heavy with implications that he visibly flushed._ _

__“Oh, stuff it,” John ground out with an embarrassed smile._ _

__“Right,” Greg laughed. “Next time. And by the way, you’re quite good, can imagine you playing with the Blackheath gang.” John flushed even further even as Greg added, “You know, twenty years ago.”_ _

__“Thank you!” John called sarcastically over his shoulder as he made his way in the other direction from the group, over the pitch, towards Sherlock. The consulting detective’s expression did not change as John advanced on him but he did pull into himself a bit, closing off. “So,” John began, taking a step past Sherlock, waiting for the detective to follow._ _

__He did after a moment, hands still in his pockets. “That was complete and utter chaos. Gentlemen turning into hooligans indeed, not that I can say many of your teammates are gentlemen-”_ _

__John rolled his eyes and wiped a hand over his face. “So you came so you could piss all over my... Sherlock, don’t.”_ _

__“I was merely attempting to state that-”_ _

__“Contrary to your belief, I am allowed to find enjoyment in activities that you neither approve of nor understand,” John spoke over him, crossing the street at a brisk pace so that for once Sherlock was the one who had to play catch up. “And I’m aware that you don’t care, but this is important to me.”_ _

__Sherlock was silent for the next few moments and John was content to have him stay that way for the duration of their walk back to Baker Street. He’d no intention of taking a cab, choosing the walk as a cool down._ _

__“Your team lost the match.”_ _

__“Yes,” John agreed._ _

__“But you still... enjoyed yourself,” Sherlock stated, did not ask._ _

__“I did.”_ _

__“Well... good, then.” Sherlock paused and unscrewed his mouth into a small smile. “Good, I... good.”_ _

__John wasn’t exactly sure what Sherlock was thinking, but the way he said it, as though he was somehow suddenly pleased that John had enjoyed himself. “Mmm,” John hummed in agreement._ _

__“They invited you out to the pub with them,” came the next statement, “Why didn’t you go?”_ _

__John took the last pull of the water from his bottle and thought on that for a moment. “Would have been rude, wouldn’t it? I mean, you’d showed up and...”_ _

__“You shouldn’t have considered my presence a deterrent. Go to the pub.”_ _

__John stopped and rounded on Sherlock, squaring his shoulders, getting up into his space a bit. Though he was shorter, he cut an intimidating figure and Sherlock backed down a bit. “I didn’t want to go to the pub, alright?”_ _

__Sherlock simply blinked._ _

__“I wanted to have a... a nice walk home.” John didn’t add the ‘with you’ that he’d nearly blurted. He waited until the words sunk in, until he was sure Sherlock heard him and had abruptly turned on heel and had kept walking. There was a bit of embarrassment lingering in the pit of his stomach at ever having wanted to impress Sherlock on the pitch._ _

__Of course the man wasn’t impressed; he’d simply attended in order to officially rule it out as being relevant to life, to John’s life, to life in general._ _

__The rest of the walk back was spent in silence, John quietly fuming and Sherlock texting god only knew who. Twice John had to throw out his arm so that the oblivious detective didn’t walk straight out into traffic._ _

__“Christ, Sherlock,” John had growled as they crossed Baker Street towards the flat, Sherlock narrowly avoiding getting pancaked again._ _

__Still texting, Sherlock barely spared him a glance as he unlocked the front door, “What?”_ _

__“Nothing,” John shook his head and shouldered his way through their flat door, Sherlock directly on his trail._ _

__As he tucked the cell phone into his trouser pocket he managed a rather even, “Aside from the utter lack of a point to the game, I do have to admit that from what I observed you played quite well.”_ _

__“I, what?”_ _

__“You played well, you look quite... fit.”_ _

__“I looked fit?” John asked in amusement and awe as he tossed his bag onto the floor by the sofa._ _

__“No,” Sherlock corrected, eyes suddenly a shade closer to stormy. “You _look_ fit.”_ _

__John regarded him through narrowed eyes and said nothing; after a moment, he left Sherlock in the sitting room and retreated to the bathroom for a shower._ _

__\---_ _

__There were more bouts peppered over the following weekends and only once did a case prevent him from participating. And each of those matches - each and every one - found Sherlock on the periphery, watching._ _

__John didn’t say word one about it and neither did his teammates, though he did have to talk one of the fullbacks out of asking Sherlock for an autograph. After each match he would defer to Sherlock’s side instead of going out for a pint. John turned down six invitations to the pub until on the seventh, he accepted._ _

__“Yeah, you going to bring Sherlock along?” Greg asked as he tossed on a dry shirt. “He could stand a drink. A few, really.”_ _

__John shrugged, “I’ll give it a shot but if not... I’ll just... catch you up.”_ _

__He made his way across the field just as a light drizzle picked up and joined Sherlock beneath the tree he’d come to take up residence at during every game. “I’m going to the pub for a drink,” John said plainly. “You should come.”_ _

__Sherlock raised a brow, “I should come.” It wasn’t a question, he was simply repeating John’s statement._ _

__“I want you to come,” John amended without a trace of need in his voice though he felt it in his bones. The man had been to every one of the games he’d played in, he should meet John’s teammates, John’s newfound friends. Because that’s what people did with people they were close to, they introduced them to others that they cared about. And John was oddly prideful to call Sherlock Holmes his friend, his flatmate, his..._ _

__“Alright,” Sherlock said over a sniffle and tipped his chin towards the sky, speaking nothing of the implications._ _

__The smile that bloomed across John’s face nearly hurt. “Yeah?”_ _

__Sherlock rolled his eyes and took off across the field, “Please do not expect me to indulge in talk of football or sports in general and I will not give autographs.”_ _

__John jogged up behind him, “You can’t possibly have known that he’d want an autograph, you can’t possibly have known that!”_ _

__“Please, John, the man has been staring at me more often than actually playing the game, he’s a _fan_.” Shaking his head, John laughed and let Sherlock lead them to the pub; it wasn’t as though Sherlock had been there before but he knew every back alley and underground, after-hours club so it was only logical that he would know the names of all of the pubs on the high road.  
The drizzle had picked up to a steady rain by the time they reached their destination. “You’re not going to give me the ‘just don’t be yourself’ speech?” Sherlock asked as he held the door open for John and the shorter man ducked under his arm._ _

__The surprised laugh that John gave startled even himself. “Please, that wouldn’t stop you.”_ _

__Upon entering, they were hit with a wall of heat and noise, the scent of stale ale washing over them. “Disgusting,” Sherlock bit out but John just shoved his good shoulder into the man’s arm and Sherlock miraculously shut up._ _

__John led them to the back of the pub, winding around people before coming upon the rugby group. “Heeeeey!” a few of them called, already into their second pints. John couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of him as a bloke named Tom reached over and handed him a pint. “First rounds on us, the _winning_ team,” and with that came more cheers._ _

__John lifted his glass in thanks and stepped aside as Tom held out a pint to Sherlock who took it after only a brief moment of hesitation. A moment or two after that he took a sip, then a second and finally, a full, real drink of the ale. “This is...” John began after taking a few pulls of his own pint. “Sherlock Holmes.”_ _

__Lestrade watched carefully as John stood aside as his teammates extended their hands. Sherlock took them each in turn, giving a small, phony smile. A phony smile that only John and Lestrade managed to see through. It was so out of character that Lestrade couldn’t help huffing out a chuckle through a mouthful of beer._ _

__John too managed a smile and leaned forward onto the small bar table, wondering a bit at how the hell he’d managed to get his flatmate to actually come with him to a _pub_ with _people_._ _

__An hour and two more pints later, Sherlock was actually indulging in quiet conversation with a few blokes on John’s team, each of them speaking animatedly in their own turn. Sherlock was nodding, sipping from his pint (still his first) and adding comments as he saw fit._ _

__Whether he was putting on a character or not, John appreciated it. John had thought that having being so out of his element Sherlock would have spent the evening brooding, standing at John’s side. He certainly had not been expecting this level of... human interaction from his flatmate. As he glanced over at him for the umpteenth time, that familiar swell rising in his chest, jostling the butterflies in his belly._ _

__Was Sherlock pretending to be amenable, pretending to be amiable and friendly... for him? No, that was distinctly preposterous, absolutely batty; John tossed back the rest of his pint and bought another round for the lads who were empty. He placed a new, full pint in front of Sherlock but he took no notice, too engrossed speaking with the half-back from the black team.  
There was that swell again, but John swallowed against it and entered into a conversation with two blokes who worked in his MP’s office._ _

__Later on, feeling full on chips and ale, John bid the group goodbye and waited for Sherlock to shrug on his coat; he was shocked when Sherlock rounded the table to say goodnight to one of the doctors he’d been engaging with earlier._ _

__John led the way back out through the pub. On the pavement, Sherlock hailed a cab and John was happy to climb inside; after the food and drink he was tired and a bit tipsy and the idea of walking back to Baker Street wasn’t the most appealing._ _

__Once he’d settled himself in the back, he spared a glance at Sherlock, whose gaze was out the window; sighing, John sank back into the seat and slung his arm over his duffel, content with the silence for the time being. Idly, he ran his fingers over his knees and looked out his own window, quietly ruminating over the events of his day._ _

__Sherlock had arrived to watch his match; by now, John had become accustomed to this behavior, though he hadn’t become accustomed to the warm weight in his stomach at acknowledging this. John was undeniably fond of Sherlock, a shade beyond fond. Far, far beyond fond._ _

__The chuckle that bubbled out of John shook him a bit; bollocks to fond, John was falling head over heels, though admittedly, through molasses. What he felt for Sherlock - what he was beginning to feel for Sherlock - was quite akin to what he felt for just few of his past romantic partners. It wasn’t foreign, this weight in his chest, this desire for _more_ but it was absolutely uncharted territory considering that Sherlock was a _man_._ _

__Well, that was-_ _

__“John,” Sherlock snapped. “Pay the man!”_ _

__John roused himself and glanced over at his partner. “Oh no, you hailed it, you’re paying!” and with that he hastily exited the cab and left Sherlock fumbling through fabric for his wallet. He already had the door open by the time the other man was finishing up and he lead them up the stairs without saying a word._ _

__Once inside the flat, Sherlock stood in the middle of the sitting room as though expecting something._ _

__“Ehem, thanks for coming tonight. It was...” John ran a hand across the back of his neck, color rising to his cheeks. “You know? It was nice.”_ _

__Sherlock nodded, shrugged out of his coat and hung it up on the back of the door._ _

__“Contrary to what I’d assumed, your rugby mates aren’t all complete... idiots.”_ _

__“You spoke with Dev, did you?” John laughed and sat heavily onto the couch, working at the laces of his trainers. “Can you believe that? Most published endocrinologist in Britain! Wouldn’t have guessed that either, the way he throws _elbows_...”_ _

__“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed in agreement, moved to the hearth and stood there, his gaze on John. Though he could feel the other man’s gaze, John didn’t look up, instead continuing to remove his shoes. “Hmmmm...”_ _

__“Hmmm what?”_ _

__Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in what looked like anger before clearing, deep, angry green to non-threatening blue, it seemed. John tossed his trainers in his bag, looking at Sherlock expectantly. “Well?”_ _

__“Well?”_ _

__“Well, yes. You’re acting odd.” John chuckled and gathered his bag over his shoulder, standing. “More odd than usual,” he amended._ _

__Still, Sherlock said nothing, walked to the windows and back, stopped, started, stopped again. John simply rolled his eyes and feeling the pull of alcohol and exercise, wished to retire to his room for a kip._ _

__Sherlock reached out and grabbed his bicep, squeezing gently; his eyes were as wide as saucers, as though he couldn’t believe he’d done it. “I... thank you, for... inviting me this evening. It wasn’t awful.”_ _

__“Wasn’t awful, right well, thanks and cheers and thank you for... actually coming, Sherlock.” John nodded at himself, accepting the words as he spoke them. “It certainly wasn’t awful.” He pulled gently away, paced out into the hallway._ _

__Just as he mounted the stairs to his room he turned round and said, “It was _fun_ , wasn’t it?”_ _

__A slight smile sparked Sherlock’s mouth. “No...”_ _

__\---_ _

__Thirteen days straight of attempting to fell a world class forger out of New York City and after countless millions were stolen, located and re-appropriated, Sherlock and John stumbled home to 221b._ _

__The latter fell into a deep slumber that lasted the better part of a day while the former remained conscious, torturing the most bizarre sounds out of his violin; still, John slept through the racket and found, when he awoke, a Sherlock strung out on too many hours spent awake._ _

__“Mmmph, s’Saturday?” John asked through bleary eyes as he went about making the tea and toast. A mug for him, a mug for Sherlock._ _

__Sherlock tapped a staccato rhythm on the arm of the sofa, but did not reply, his eyes wide and bloodshot and his body restless. John spared him a glance, compassion in his gaze; surely he would not admit it but Sherlock needed sleep. Any moment now his body would buckle and betray him, proving once again that though he was brilliant, he was indeed human._ _

__John shuffled to the refrigerator and unearthed a carton of Greek yoghurt he’d picked up the week before and located a spoon. Walking over to the sofa, John bent down, turned Sherlock’s right palm up and deposited the container and utensil into his hand. “Eat, please.”_ _

__After a few spacey blinks at the detritus in his hands, Sherlock computed what was going on and instead of fighting him on it, peeled back the lid and began to eat. John, though incredibly surprised, went about preparing their tea._ _

__It wasn’t a moment before Sherlock tossed the empty container down on the coffee table and flung himself back onto the sofa, still twitching. John took in the sight of him as he reentered the room. Pajamas rumpled but not slept in, dressing gown twisted in what looked like a distinctly uncomfortable manner, hair a bit greasy, face entirely too pallid. The man needed a good, long sleep._ _

__John placed a mug in front of Sherlock and sat down with his own before rethinking his strategy and leaning over to offer the plate of toast to Sherlock. “Take a piece,” John asked gently and after a moment of staring at the plate, he did, choosing one slathered with marmalade. The detective chewed quickly and then settled back on the sofa._ _

__“Yes, it is Saturday John which means you have a match, correct?” Sherlock did not wait for John to comment. “I was hoping it would hold out on rain today so I could see the effect of a male body hitting the _dry_ dirt, but all the same. Is your white shirt clean? Do you need me to provide you with one? I saw the black had been in the wash three days ago, so you’re set on that front and-”_ _

__John huffed around a piece of toast and washed it down with a sip of tea. “Oh no, you’re staying in. You need a rest, Sherlock. The human body shouldn’t go this long without sleep, it’s not... it’s just not...”_ _

__“Oh _please_ ,” Sherlock said snidely, staring at the ceiling._ _

__“Doctor,” John claimed just as snidely and finished off his toast, lingering over the tea. Sherlock remained on the sofa, quietly humming to himself now and again, twitching this way and that. John noted that he was surely slipping into a sort of delirium and hoped if he was quiet enough that the man would sink to sleep._ _

__Carefully, John got up from the chair and made himself another cup of tea; he headed to the shower and had a shave, folded the washing he’d hastily managed to toss into the dryer on Thursday and tidied his room a bit, all the while stalling in the hopes that when he descended the stairs, his flatmate would be asleep._ _

__John had no such luck as when he made his way down with his bag slung across his chest, he found Sherlock in the kitchen, coat on, scarf wound tightly around his neck. “You’re going to be late!” he barked unceremoniously._ _

__John simply rolled his eyes and shouldered his way around the man and through to the landing. “You need rest, you _need_ to stay home,” John demanded and as an afterthought added, “Please.”_ _

__Sherlock just stared, _stared_ at him before stepping around John and bounding down the steps. So, _that was that_ , John supposed and followed, defeated._ _

__Luckily, they didn’t walk to the park but got a cab and miraculously, Sherlock paid the cabbie before John even had to prompt him to. By the time he made it to the benches it was already drizzling and the sky looked as though it threatened a real bout of rain before the afternoon was through._ _

__They had only made it through ten minutes of play when the light rain turned into an absolute downpour and the referee called the match, the mud becoming too much of a problem. The men gathered up their things and jogged off with their sodden belonging and John couldn’t help but feel a bit put out. Ten minutes of play to wind up muddy and cold and to have it be called a draw, it all seemed a bit pointless._ _

__He’d expected to gather his things and make for the tube but as he looked up he saw Sherlock jogging across the pitch, expensive wingtips covered in mud. “John! Why did they stop!?”_ _

__“The mud, Sherlock,” John said, pushing a wet shirt over his face to remove some of the stuff. “Could barely see the ball.”_ _

__“Ah,” Sherlock nodded and glanced so vehemently to the road that his hair whipped a curtain of hair across John’s vision. “How do you feel about Chinese?”_ _

__John grumbled and trudged through the mud, “I feel favorably, I suppose, if it’s take away and afterwards you _go to bed_.” But Sherlock didn’t hear him, having already torn off across the grass in pursuit of a cab to hail. John followed behind him as best he good, narrowly avoiding puddles as he went._ _

__It was quite some time before they were able to get a cab that would take them, seeing as John was covered from head to toe in mud, but once they had, Sherlock barked the address of the Chinese place around the corner from Baker Street and they were off. John sat sulking on the right side of the cab, the driver shooting him annoyed looks at his abominably muddy state._ _

__Sherlock sat abreast him, wringing the moisture from the tails of his coat and looking very much like he was going to collapse at any given second. After long minutes of doing all that he could to relieve his coat of the rain, Sherlock’s head snapped up and he said, “Kung Pao chicken!”_ _

__“Yes,” John agreed._ _

__“And beef with broccoli!”_ _

__“...alright.”_ _

__“And those dumplings that you’re so keen on! Perhaps some lo mein as well...” Sherlock’s eyes had lit and his hands were moving animatedly and John felt something shoot straight down his spine; aside from the fact that he was thrilled that Sherlock seemed very intent and excited about the idea of eating, there was something else, something deep and cloying and-_ _

__Bollocks that because-_ _

__Sopping wet, sore, tired and rather put out in the back of a cab, John Watson came up with the perfect word to describe the coalescence of _something_ regarding his flatmate._ _

__Head over heels in a bit of love._ _

__John groaned to himself just as they pulled up to the Chinese, Sherlock moving towards the door first. “Hold the cab, I’ll wait for the food.” And like that, Sherlock was gone - door opening, closing, a rush of rain filtering in - and the cabbie was more than happy to wait at the kerb with the meter running._ _

__Sherlock’s absence gave John some respite as he turned over the revelation in his head; he loved his flatmate, was positively bonkers for him and wasn’t that it was a sudden thing, not really. It was just that it was fantastically new and foreign information to process._ _

__John... needed a minute._ _

__

__John mercifully let his mind go blank as he rested his head back against the worn plastic of the seat. He heaved a quick few breaths through his nose and peeled his eyes open to see Sherlock bounding through the downpour, laden with full plastic bags._ _

__He was a hurricane, getting back in the cab and gave the driver a curt directive to Baker Street before he even had the door properly closed. John blinked across at Sherlock, noting that his previous efforts to rid himself of the rain were in vain._ _

__“Alright?” John asked, as though it matters at all, as though he couldn’t see for himself that things were fantastically chaotic._ _

__Sherlock knew nothing of what was running through John’s head; perhaps if he’d been at the top of his game he’d have been able to deduce what was going through John’s head simply by the curling of the lines around his eyes._ _

__But he was tired and wet and simply said, “Yes,” as though questioning his well being was entirely absurd._ _

__They were soaked to the bone once more exiting the cab but Sherlock seemed to pay the rain no longer any mind, pushing through the outer door and bounding up the stairs to the flat. John followed, slowly, the cold having seeped into his bones._ _

__Sherlock was once again a flurry of a human, the delirium giving way to a belated surge of energy; John could almost see it wind through him, toss him like a puppet._ _

__“I find the impact fascinating, positively fascinating,” Sherlock rambled and pulled his sodden scarf from around his neck, tossing it haphazardly over the back of John’s chair; John saw fit to relocate the garment before it seeped into the fabric. “The amount of shock one must absorb when being, being tackled!”_ _

__“Yeh,” John humored as he rid himself of his sopping outer garments, snagging a dishtowel from the kitchen and running it through his hair._ _

__In the sitting room, Sherlock paced manically, eyes still bright and bloodshot, body still thrumming with the onset of delirium. “Sherlock, you need a kip, a long kip,” John said tiredly. Though he’d felt the positive effects of his long sleep, the absence of it over the past days had thrown his cycle for a loop. He hoped that now, after the game, his body would fall to sleep at the proper hour._ _

__He hoped that if he slept, he wouldn’t have to dissect this new descriptive for his feelings until much, much later._ _

__John paced back out into the sitting room, utensils in hand and unloaded the take out boxes from the slick white plastic. There was heaps of food, much more than John was accustomed to Sherlock ordering, but he opened them each in turn, the aroma from the cartons coaxing out John’s appetite._ _

__“Here,” John whispered and held out a fork, already digging into lo mein as Sherlock snatched it away and hunkered down on the floor, across from him at the coffee table. “I’m not kidding,” he said through a mouthful of food. “You’re so tired you’re going to drop, so... after this, I’m ordering you to sleep."_ _

__“Ordering me,” Sherlock mimicked as he rooted around the table for a pair of chopsticks, abandoning the fork. “I’m finding I quite like rugby,” he began saying around his own mouthful of food. “That is, I enjoy watching you play rugby. I suppose I didn’t know that your body could move in such a way.” Sherlock paused for a breath, a piece of beef. “I’d assumed you were very physical due to your time in the service but your skill on the field is impressive, you outshine the lot of your teammates.”_ _

__John continued eating while Sherlock went on talking and it was minutes, hours, days before John cut him off with a curt, “Stop.”_ _

__Sherlock blinked up at him, chopsticks stilled in the container of dumplings._ _

__John dropped his fork and pressed his hands together between his knees. “You’ve come to every one of my bouts, why?”_ _

__He asked the question head on; what the hell was he doing?_ _

__Slowly, Sherlock’s jaw worked itself back into chewing his mouthful and he swallowed, running the back of his hand over his lips. “I...”_ _

__John perked his right eyebrow in question._ _

__“...I...”_ _

__John waited, eyes wide._ _

__“...I...” and then Sherlock was surging up and across the table entirely _not_ put off by the look of shock on John’s face; his body was a bridge above their dinner as Sherlock settled a hand against John’s shoulder and brought his mouth against John’s._ _

__He stood like that for a long moment, ages; eyes open, mouths pressed solidly but not painfully together. A closed-mouth kiss._ _

__Explanation enough, then._ _

__John said nothing, moved nothing, content to rest his mouth against Sherlock’s and wait. And to think, an hour previous he’d come shaking and terrified and thrilled to his revelation in the cab. How much easier it would have been if he’d been honest with himself from the onset, then again, the human condition didn’t generally allow things to come so easily._ _

__Sherlock blinked and pulled back, lips just slightly parted. “...Okay?”_ _

__John swallowed, nudged back on the sofa, wet clothing squeaking against the leather and directed, “Again.”_ _

__Heartened by John’s words, Sherlock stepped around the table, limbs moving liquid fast and sure and pressed his palms against John’s cheeks and _kissed_ him. Truly kissed him, John’s mouth slicking open to admit Sherlock’s tongue._ _

__And it was wet, wet, oh dear god so wet and brilliant. John’s hands made a play for Sherlock’s hips and held steady, the other man towering over him, pressing kisses down onto his mouth. His tongue - sweet, wet, _hot_ \- slid against John’s teeth, along the crest of his upper lip before delving back in._ _

__Every nerve ending sang with the brilliance of it and this, this feeling was what John had held deep in his chest for some time. Now, it had sprung free and seeped out and John could feel it in his pores, could taste it on Sherlock’s tongue. Oh, oh, oh, it was positively _everything_._ _

__John tore off from Sherlock with a breathless laugh and glanced hastily up into the other man’s eyes. “Can’t help but wonder if it was my stunning physique as a rugby player that brought this on,” John said, breathless, in wonder._ _

__Sherlock remained serious; flushed, but serious. “That’s rather shallow.”_ _

__“I just-”_ _

__“Though I feel it necessary to confirm that your physicality whilst playing is quite... I suppose people call something like this a ‘turn on’ and-”_ _

__The grin that bloomed against John’s lips was hidden as he pressed forward and kissed Sherlock again, nearly vicious in its intensity. Messy, wet, open; tongue against tongue and Sherlock was pushing against him so hard his back was beginning to seize up a bit. Still, John met him with ardor, his left hand abandoning Sherlock’s hip to tangle in his hair._ _

__Oh, well, this was perfectly alright and just fine and bloody spectacular and what exactly had John been worried about?_ _

__There were no thoughts as Sherlock deviated from his lips and kissed a trail across his jaw, teeth scraping over the stubble until he found John’s carotid and _sucked_. “Jesus, oh fuck, oh,” and both of his hands were in Sherlock’s hair, carding through and holding him there. The hum that radiated from the detective’s lips sang against John’s skin and it was unbidden, hips rutting up against Sherlock._ _

__“Please,” John gasped, breath humid against the other man’s forehead. Sherlock groaned against him, slid his arms around John’s back and then stilled._ _

__“You’re... covered in mud...” Pupils blown wide, his breath coming in short little gasps and Sherlock sucked in a thick breath, let it out on a bark of a laugh. John startled a bit but Sherlock simply slumped down onto the floor dragging his hands onto John’s knees. “Clean yourself up and...”_ _

__John blinked, pulling himself out of the haze of arousal that had settled around him. “Right, god, yes, I...”_ _

__“...and I will...” One hand in his hair, the other flailed about toward the food, a gesture that meant ‘deal with this.’_ _

__John stilled, not wanting to sever the physical connection between them. The last thing he would be able to deal with would be Sherlock compartmentalizing what had happened, turning his back on it, deleting it._ _

__“Don’t be so transparent,” Sherlock said, surprisingly gentle. “You clean up and when you’re through we’ll... pick up where we left off.”_ _

__He took a steadying breath, two, three. “Okay.” John stood._ _

__Sherlock stood as well, “Okay,” and leaned in and pressed a soft kiss next to John’s right eye. “Good.”_ _

__Slowly and a little dreamily, John padded up to his room to get his dressing gown and stumbled back down the stairs, taking in the sight of Sherlock placing the tops on the take out containers; it was an odd scene, to be sure, but John tore his attention away, walked out through the hallway and into the bathroom._ _

__His dirty, damp clothes went straight into the laundry basket and when he hopped into the shower, it was beneath a scalding spray, the heat chasing some of the remaining chills from his bones. John steadfastly ignored the heaviness between his thighs, not allowing his hands to linger beneath his waist longer than necessary. Once certain he’d rid himself of the filth, John stepped out into the steamy bathroom and toweled himself off, wrapping himself hastily in his robe before tossing the towel and tearing out the door._ _

__He wasn’t thinking, moving hastily through the hallway and past Sherlock’s room and came up very short as he rounded the corner and saw detective, faced down, completely and totally out cold on the sofa. John couldn’t help but break into a soft smile._ _

__He needed the rest, John knew, and went about clearing the rest of the take out with only lingering disappointment._ _

__\---_ _

__It took no longer than a few moments for John’s eyes to droop and settle and he slept a hard, dreamless sleep, his body hunkering in for a good, long rest. He lay in on his side, one hand under the pillow the other curled into his chest and didn’t move again until he felt something sidle up behind him._ _

__Something warm, heavy, something puffing moist breaths against the nape of his neck. “Whu-whu, Sherlock?”_ _

__A contented hum was his reply as Sherlock nosed at John’s skin, pressing his lips against his neck as he went, slowly, slowly._ _

__“Wha- Sherlock, what?” John huffed around a yawn as his body unfurled from it’s foetal position to try and shift onto his back._ _

__The voice was matter of fact, not a trace of fatigue in it. “I’ve slept. Shall we pick up where we left off?” It was nearly comforting that their snogging on the couch hadn’t affected Sherlock as John had been expecting. He was still the same selfish, needy prat._ _

__“Nah- Sherlock, I, I’m sleeping. I was... sleeping.”_ _

__Sherlock’s lip twitched, whether in annoyance or confusion, John didn’t know. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment before he forced them back open, “I’m sleeping,” he said once more, voice thick with slumber._ _

__“Right, right,” Sherlock nodded and wriggled down onto the bed, his head settling on the pillow behind John, seeming very keen indeed to please him, apparently. “So sleep.”_ _

__John couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening; the damned cobwebs wouldn’t shake loose from his mind. “You’re sleeping. ...here?”_ _

__Sherlock rolled his eyes and placed a hand on John’s hip. “Stop talking, go to sleep.” From then on out Sherlock was perfectly still, whether asleep or not, John’s subconscious did not care and he slipped back under, tucked against the warm weight of his flatmate._ _

__\---_ _

__When his body finally alighted with wakefulness it was to the mid-morning traffic cacophony outside the window and a very ruffled consulting detective. “Jesus,” John muttered to himself and to Sherlock who was rousing himself from slumber just as John had finished coming to._ _

__“Oi, uhm,” John squinted at Sherlock, the harsh sunlight slipping through the curtains creating a halo above the man’s head. “Good... morning?”_ _

__Sherlock squinted back, glancing down at where his hand had curled around John’s thigh in his sleep. Almost experimentally his fingers flexed and John’s eyes gave a little jump, his hand reaching down before Sherlock could even register movement, stilling his wrist._ _

__“Not good?” came the question, voice somehow deeper, thicker with drowsiness._ _

__“S’fine. Good, just,” John yawned but broke on a smile. “Ticklish.”_ _

__A small smile bloomed on the other man’s lips and John was content to simply lay in bed and watch for a few lazy moments. After a bit, he gave a tilt of his chin and Sherlock slid over, right into the nook of John’s side and they..._ _

__Well, they cuddled. Warm and hazy from eight-plus hours, it was a positively melting feeling. “I’m enjoying this,” Sherlock mentioned - voice sounding bored, body proving otherwise - both surprised with himself and reassuring John._ _

__“Hm, good, I am too, s’been awhile since I’ve had a nice cuddle,” John responded, feeling the thickness of slumber uncurl from his vocal cords._ _

__“Cuddling,” Sherlock groaned, “Common, tedious, there must be another moniker.”_ _

__John chuffed out a laugh, feeling it expand his chest, light his heart into a frantic, explosive tattoo. “Lazing about? Does that work?”_ _

__“...I suppose...” Sherlock’s thumb slipped over John’s hipbone, settling on the elastic waist of his pajama pants. John tilted his chin until he could watch the man’s fingers moving gently, unassuming across his skin._ _

__It went unsaid but John was already straining against the front of his pants; fastidiously, Sherlock ignored that fact, passing the pads of his fingers over every other surface readily available to him. It felt like hours before John gently stopped him. “Brush my teeth, yeah?”_ _

__Sherlock blinked so slowly that John swore time was thickening to honey. “Yes,” and with that he too got up from bed, leading the way down the steps, John following as ever._ _

__They cleaned their teeth silently, side by side, each taking turns to spit and rinse. It was bizarrely intimate and John languished in it, the simple act of maintaining oral hygiene relaxing him for what was to come. Unspoken, but John knew as soon as they returned upstairs to his room that Sherlock would take him over and he would take Sherlock over and it would all end, begin, coalesce, ignite._ _

__Still, as they walked back to John’s bedroom, it was unhurried, languid and peaceful, a nearly Sunday-morning hush falling over the flat. Even the dust particles didn’t dare stir. Sherlock held the covers back for him and John clambered in, shivering when Sherlock joined him and then it was lips on lips._ _

__Peppermint and unending, agonizing want. John’s hands shook with the need to touch everything, all at once. His mind scrambled to decide: eyes open or closed? Take in the sensation of Sherlock’s mouth on his or watch the way the corners of his eyes pulled, paper thin and manic as Sherlock _kissed_ him?_ _

__John took on Sherlock’s weight as the taller man rolled on top of him, his torso sliding deliciously along John’s, his light cotton shirt hitching up so that their stomachs were flush. “Oh,” Sherlock gasped into his mouth and properly situated himself between John’s thighs, one leg sliding between the vee of his legs._ _

__Gingerly, John shuffled down, his groin meeting with Sherlock’s knee and the resulting pressure rolled through him, thick and heavy and solid; it tore a desperate groan out of John just as the other man dipped in to nip at his ear, _hard_._ _

__“Christ, Sherlock!”_ _

__The resulting hum thrummed through John’s body, caused him to tighten his hands on Sherlock’s hip and arse. “Would you prefer I be gentle?” he asked, nuzzling his nose along John’s neck, feather light, tickling._ _

__Beneath him, John squirmed, his hand daring to slide along the front of Sherlock’s pants and cup the hardness there. It dawned on him foggily that he’d never felt anyone’s cock but his own and he greedily stroked over the cotton-clad flesh, learning Sherlock, bit by bit, internally laughing at his own ambiguous stance on the matter. The other man moved, mop of hair flipping messily as he sought John’s flesh, mouth connecting with any skin he could access on the doctor as John continued stroking and touching, experimentally, lightly._ _

__“Shirt, _shirt_ , John!” Sherlock cried, his teeth tearing at the fabric over the doctor’s right nipple. Sitting up on his heels, Sherlock quite literally tore his shirt over his head, the neck catching on Sherlock’s chin with a growl as John chuckled, ridding himself of his own shirt while he was at it. It wasn’t a moment before Sherlock’s hands were all over the newly-exposed skin, short, perfectly manicured nails mapping out his collarbones, his pectorals, the curve of his shoulders.__

___“Don’t speak,” Sherlock directed though John had not spoken and thus he simply licked his lips and gave a short nod, watching as the detective’s chest heaved with effort; he too licked his lips and bent suddenly, glancing sharp teeth over a nipple._ _ _

___“Nnnggggghhh,” came the strangled groan but, doing as he was told, John did not speak. The detective’s hand moved over the newly-honed muscles of the doctor’s biceps, his triceps, down to his wrist to squeeze. John’s hips would not still, rutting up against the man’s thigh, desperately seeking friction, _anything_. There was a stillness as Sherlock’s lush lips skated over his torso, around his belly button (quickly, quickly) before coming up to an abrupt halt at John’s waistband._ _ _

___The gaze he was given was shockingly raw, brutally honest and it stole the miniscule amount of breath that was left in John’s lungs. Sherlock looked wanton and depraved, perfectly lustful; hair mussed, eyes bright, utterly... fuckable._ _ _

___Still, without a word, John lifted his hips and Sherlock did not hesitate, shucking him of his bottoms and his pants in one fell swoop. Completely nude he simply lay and watched on as Sherlock sat back and looked his fill. “Yes,” Sherlock gasped, as though deeming the situation sufficient, perfectly acceptable and John couldn’t help the tiny, embarrassed tilt of his mouth._ _ _

___Sherlock’s eyes flashed immediately to his, “Oh stop, you’re magnificent,” he said before all but swooping down and slicking his tongue along the thick vein on the underside of his prick. Even as he watched, John wasn’t expecting it and the resultant buck of his hips and the sound that he emitted were both unbidden and harsh. Strong hands shoved his hips back down and John let his lead roll back on the pillow his eyes tumbling harshly in his head; glorious, he felt positively glorious in Sherlock’s mouth._ _ _

___A tongue lapped at the precome at his tip, suckling gently before flicking the tip of his tongue gently, quickly along the slit._ _ _

___“Christ oh christ oh christ,” John gasped, tugged at Sherlock’s hair, at the sheets, back at Sherlock’s head. The man hummed again, right as he swallowed his prick, sliding until the glans nudged at the back of his throat; Sherlock held him there so deep (too deep?) and managed somehow - god, god, god - to roll his tongue._ _ _

___The sound that came from John was unintelligible, truly and he had to gasp for air as Sherlock slid his lips off of him and..._ _ _

___Laughed._ _ _

___“What are you-” he began before thinking. “Why are you?”_ _ _

___Sherlock, still chuckling, dipped lower and lapped quickly at John’s testicles. “What was that you said?”_ _ _

___John heaved a sigh and held it in his chest. “No?” Sherlock taunted, “Can’t repeat yourself?”_ _ _

___“Come off it!” John grunted and gave a snap of his hips but instead, Sherlock slid up his body, half-on, half-off of his flatmate before pressing his lips against the underside of John’s jaw. Sherlock nibbled and licked, painfully lethargic before John had had enough, took the man’s face between his hands and kissed._ _ _

___He tasted sweat, he tasted Sherlock, he tasted the tang of himself and it was excruciatingly _good_._ _ _

___Sherlock met him eagerly, groaning bordering on a squeak as John took his bottom lip into his mouth and sucked. “I can’t, I can’t,” John gasped into the man’s mouth as the hand that was not knotted in Sherlock’s hair lazily pushed at the man’s pajama bottoms. “I can’t, if we can’t, can we?”_ _ _

___Sherlock, still kissing him, managed a sloppy, “Can’t what? Articulate, please!”_ _ _

___“This can’t be something you delete once we’re through, you understand, you _have_ to understa-” but Sherlock nipped at his lip, effective cutting off any more desperate pleas._ _ _

___Sherlock pulled back, wrecked and reborn and the tender look in his eyes brought a startling knot to John’s throat. “You underestimate me, then? Do you?”_ _ _

___“No, I-”_ _ _

___“That’s the last I’ll hear of it,” and with a wriggle of his arse and a bit of assistance from his right hand, Sherlock managed to rid himself of his bottoms and slot himself directly against John’s cock. “You’re more than it all, John,” he choked, forehead falling against the other man’s. “More than it all and that’s the last I’ll hear of it.”_ _ _

___There were no words, there was no breath, and John’s heart still, came to a perfect stop on the downbeat as his mind whirled belatedly to life, desperate to capture this one moment (please) just this one. Everything stuttered and skidded to a halt when their eyes met and Sherlock swallowed, sliding his temple to rest against John’s._ _ _

___“Can you,” he began, running over the words, stumbling upon the next ones, “John, will you... I want to feel you.” Hands in John’s, digits squeezed._ _ _

___John’s stubbly cheek scratched against Sherlock’s cheekbone as he agreed without thought. Of course, of course he would. How could he not? “You’ll have to tell me, Sherlock. You’ll have to-”_ _ _

___“Yes,” and as a lynx might, the taller man unfurled off of John’s body and without a word walked from the room. John took the moment to catch his breath, stroked himself once, twice, his fingers gliding over Sherlock’s saliva. And oh that knowledge that his mouth had been on John’s prick, had greedily sucked had wanted _more_ , John felt himself swell a bit. Dear god, this was happening, it was happening and he was stunning, mind bendingly over the moon about it all._ _ _

___When Sherlock returned just a few moments later, John was treated to a view of the sleek lines of his body. Standing, muscle maneuvering beneath alabaster, paper skin, Sherlock looked a downright feast and John would be remiss if he didn’t notice that he actually salivated at the thought. In his right hand was a small bottle of lube and with his left he was casually stroking himself._ _ _

___“John,” he rasped, stroking himself fervently for a moment, prick standing hard and needy as his twisted his wrist on the downstroke._ _ _

___He swore he felt his pupils blow wide and open and John opened his palms out to Sherlock, made a ‘come here’ gesture, “Get, get, come _here now_.”_ _ _

___John shuffled himself up on the bed, less than gracefully._ _ _

___Sherlock too climbed up, sliding down on his elbows until he was flush against the bed. “You’ll want to,” Sherlock said, holding out the bottle and John took it with an embarrassed shush._ _ _

___“I can find my way to a certain point,” John mumbled, leaning down to press an open mouthed kiss to Sherlock’s nape as he rolled on the condom._ _ _

___John slid down on the bed astride him, on his side and Sherlock perked his head up on a palm, watching him. John stroked slowly down Sherlock's back, in no rush. He traced the peaks of his shoulder blades and toppled over every vertebrae. He spent in an ordinate amount of time at the small of the detective’s back, pressing in to massage at his coccyx._ _ _

___Sherlock’s blinks were underwater, languid and John watched him as he touched and touched and touched. When John slipped his fingers down Sherlock’s cleft he settled himself down fully on the bed with a sigh._ _ _

___Experimentally, John pressed against the muscle and when his partner pressed back into the pressure he slipped the tip of his finger in to the first knuckle. “That’s good,” Sherlock growled into the duvet before tossing over his shoulder, “More please.”_ _ _

___The surprised laugh that barked out of John spurred a chuckle of Sherlock’s own as John slid carefully in to the hilt, gently easing Sherlock open. “Good?”_ _ _

___“Brilliant.”_ _ _

___John worked his middle in along with his pointer and stroked in low, hard movements, spreading his fingers a bit on the pull out. “Like that, yes, yes,” Sherlock spurred him on, gently at first, more forcefully when John managed a third finger._ _ _

___“Now, John, god, don’t, now,” and he keened and thrust back, neck arching, spine dipping and it was all the doctor could do to slide himself up behind Sherlock and take himself in hand. The detective scrambled backwards a bit, up on his knees._ _ _

___“I just-”_ _ _

___“Just, _in_ , dear god, one, long,” and John took that as encouragement, working the head of his cock over Sherlock for a moment before steeling himself for the thrust in._ _ _

___Oh, oh! But nothing could have prepared him, nothing could have prepared him for the tight, wet, scorching heat of Sherlock’s body, for the low, predatory, pleased groan that tore its way from the detective’s throat, for the maddening _swallowed_ feeling of bottoming out against Sherlock’s ass._ _ _

___“Ohfuckgoodchristinheaven,” John whined and trailed a palm down Sherlock’s damp spine. “Oh I can’t move, I can’t, give me a minute, Sherlock.”_ _ _

___There was a huff of a breath and the detective nodded his head hard a few times and remained brilliantly motionless. Honey skin against the porcelain of Sherlock’s hips and John closed his eyes, took a deep, steadying breath and pulled back just a fraction._ _ _

___“Yessssss,” he keened as John brought himself out to the hilt and slid slowly, carefully back in._ _ _

___His breath was coming in tight pants, lungs on fire from holding back, holding off. “Howssat?” John slurred, needing the reassurance, needing to know that this was just as fucking fantastic for his partner as it was for him._ _ _

___“It’s _perfect_ ,” Sherlock purred and John could hear the grin in his voice and he wanted to taste, needed to taste it._ _ _

___John heaved what little self-control he had left and reached down to twine his hands around Sherlock’s chest. “Up, up,” he begged, giving the man some warning before Sherlock slid back and sat up, fully engulfing his prick._ _ _

___Sherlock’s ass against John’s thighs and he’d never felt so entirely consumed by someone, so utterly enveloped in them as he felt in Sherlock; the knot in his throat returned with a vengeance but he swallowed it down, using a hand to turn Sherlock’s head at an awkward angle and catch the side of his mouth with his. The kiss was sloppy and uneven and everything John needed._ _ _

___Sherlock kept his head turned, harsh puffs of moist air against John’s lips as he sought a rhythm, something slow and hard and _right_. One hand on Sherlock’s face, the other tweaking the man’s nipple, John felt himself brush against the man’s prostate and Sherlock positively growled. _ _ _

___John’s hand abandoned his partner's face and reached down for his cock, fingers gripping, sliding and twisting inexpertly but it was all he could manage, really._ _ _

___It was _filthy_ and John could no more stop the tide from cresting in him than he could ever hope to articulate it. “Sssslock,” John groaned and came, pulsing inside of him with uneven thrusts of his hips. “Come, come, _comeeee_ ,” John begged on a whine and just when his hips threatened to give, Sherlock spilled hot, wet, endless over his fingers._ _ _

___Before John could properly release him or really process what had happened, Sherlock went limp in his arms, crashing down onto the bed like a rag doll. John pulled out of him inefficiently and messily, ambled off the bed and disposed of the condom on legs that felt stunningly similar to pulled taffy._ _ _

___When he managed to make it back to his room, Sherlock had cleaned himself up, cocooned himself in the blankets and was staring out into the room, wide-eyed._ _ _

___John stood naked and flaccid and just a little bit awkwardly in the doorway for a moment before running a hand through the back of his hair and saying, “Well, so... that... just happened.”_ _ _

___“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed, sounding bored, eyes sharp._ _ _

___John took a few steps into the room, realizing just how ridiculous it was that he was the one being shy in this situation; it was _his bedroom_. He marched comically to the bed and thrust his body in, Sherlock once more holding up the covers for him._ _ _

___They lay side by side for some time before Sherlock slid across the center of the bed and into John’s personal space._ _ _

___“You do realize this has nothing to do with your new hobby, yes? Contrary to what I said before that honestly had little to do with the initial... want to do... this.” Though he was at a loss for words he spoke crisply, cleanly, his voice at odds with the pliancy of his body as he quite suddenly wrapped himself around John._ _ _

___The small bit of tension that had seeped its way back in quickly receded and John shoved a hand behind his head, elbow against the pillow. “You know, it’s alright to say that you liked the sight of my arse in shorts. It’s even _better_ to say that you got this idea from watching me tackle all of those men.”_ _ _

___Sherlock grumbled and leaned in to dig his pointy chin into John’s shoulder. The doctor laughed and continued, “It would make my millennium if you say that it made you _jealous_.”_ _ _

___Sherlock huffed and gave John a playful but hard shove and John retaliate quickly, incapacitating him by wrapping up his wrists in his stronger hands._ _ _

___“Though, I suppose it doesn’t matter, the why, does it?” John speculated. “Just that it did and it was good-”_ _ _

___“Brilliant!” Sherlock amended indignantly and struggled a bit._ _ _

___“Yes, that it was brilliant and-”_ _ _

___“You are,” Sherlock interceded and with a look of utter fear in his eyes nestled his head between John’s chin and chest. “As I said, more than it _all_... shall we not... do this? Right now?”_ _ _

___Inhaling the scent of Sherlock’s hair, John bit his tongue and settled back against the pillow curling an arm around his flatmate, his lover, his, _more than it all_. “Later, then. I’ll reheat the Chinese and we’ll... talk.”_ _ _

___“Mmmph,” Sherlock said into his skin and drifted off._ _ _

___\---_ _ _

___John’s next match was the following Saturday._ _ _

___He had to sit on the bench due to a mysterious groin injury._ _ _


End file.
